Not by some nefarious choice, or unrevealed action or truth have I stumbled into whatever it is I'm doing now. There has been no grand realization of anything other than I'm but a mere dumb and drifty bitch who finds herself, more often than not, as bored as all fucks can grant.

Like seriously. I get so sick of fighting with people all of the time, and especially in the XWF capacity, where I was several months ago, finding myself again on my annual "roll" of sorts in winning and being successful or this or that.

Fuck all of it really.

There's a certain layer of pretentiousness that goes into this, a certain insider cock-massaging pond of drivel and self-fellatio slobber that one must find themselves wading through at any given time if they're going to be deemed successful in this, my former line of work.

And see what I just did there? I just indicted myself again in the tragedy of forced-wit just out of sheer habit. I could have very easily have told all of you that to be successful in the XWF one must be, for lack of better phrasing, machiavellian- or in the least bit, a suck-up to hierarchy. But no, I had to at least try to demonstrate that I, a possibly inbred and certainly sixteen-year-old naive hick girl can move mountains with my words and shatter the sky with my knee.

But this line of thinking, well it's almost always all for naught.

It was sometime after losing to that unoriginal doofus, Vita Valenteen, that all of this dawned on me, again, not in some grand revelation but rather just me saying:

"I lost to Vita Valadan-somethin'. I'm utter dog shit, and most everything I've said is a fucking lie."

With my Hart Title defense against Tony Santos looming, and a shot at beating the life out of the ambiguously unchallenged Universal Champion, Bobby Main, in my horizon, I just... I just couldn't do it anymore.

I couldn't be bothered to carry on some great lie about myself. I couldn't bear the thought of sitting in some stupid television studio and producing some new and exciting pile of trash that would make people love me anymore. I felt stupid. I felt depraved. I felt that any single solitary drop of urine I could boil magnificently into something clean for the whole world to awe at would be nothing but a direct fabrication of the reality of Dolly Waters, as I were.

And so, after taking my ass beating from Tony Santos (I haven't actually gone back and watched the tape. I usually blackout every time I do this.) I took my ball and went to go do something else with it.

Drugs.

Yes, drugs. And I have loved almost every single moment of it since, while simultaneously falling in a unique, and actual, and unconditional love for myself for what I believe is the first time in my life. The love story goes a little something like this:

I was back in my hotel room somewhere in Florida, or Australia, or somewhere in between after having my ass handed to me by Tony Santos. I hadn't really thought to care about the beating or my location. The state of what was certain to be an undiagnosed concussion had left me rather fuzzy. The days and weeks were blending into one another. I clearly remember ordering room service, something protein, and fiber-rich to calm my shakes. But what I don't specifically recall is the conversation with the bellhop that led to him fetching me an eighth of some very stinky, very sticky marijuana.

The buds were fluffy and crumbled easily between my skinny fingertips. The skunky aroma I'd found was something I was endearingly accustomed to from maybe my past. That hot, stenchy smell of the Kentucky River banks on a dog day afternoon rang rather pertinently into my senses. I could feel my serenity and my truth grinding into bits of satisfaction underneath my fingernails as it fell into my makeshift can pipe like a beacon from the heavens. With a spark, and a deep breath I would soon find utopia.

No shit.

I sat there in my overbooked hotel room that was generously accommodated still by either the XWF, or Lacklan's CTN, and for the first time ever in my life, I could actually watch an episode of Dora the Explorer without being overly analytical and critical of the syntax. I just laughed my ass off.

"AHHHH! AT'S RIGHT! SWIPER NO SWIPIN' YOU FUZZY LITTLE BITCH YOU!!!!"

It was as if my worries, my insecurities, my empathy, and my self-aggrandizing tendencies had gone up in flames, and I for one couldn't have been happier. But save your sorrow for my predicament in your own clutches, for I wasn't without company in my newfound spiritually delicate experimentations. There was still the bellhop. A he was a rather lanky, pale-eyed man with salt and pepper hair, and only about ten-years my senior, his name was...

"Justin?"

I said between a series of spattering coughs and gags,

"Yeah?"

He replied while pummeling his way into the restroom at the front of the hotel suite,

"What'er' you doin'?"

I said while standing up and easing my way to him,

"Just got a strip of chewies... haven't seen these around in years."

"Chewies?"

I inquired while walking into the bathroom to find Justin popping several blue pills from a plastic little strip onto the vanity,

"Yeah. Xanax."

Justin laid a cigarette pack cellophane over top of the pills and began to crush them under the plastic with the butt of his lighter. It was a move I'd seen my father do so many times that the thought of it was nearly rudimentary to me.

"What do those do?"

I asked,

"Shit kid, you toot a couple of these babies and you'll be stealing from a Goodwill in no time."

So Justin was going somewhere I had always fancied myself... to a state of complete apathy, and I sure as shit weren't about to let him go without me.

-to be continued-

3x XTreme Champion
2x Tag Team Champion (w/ Vita Valenteen, w/ Charlie Nickles)
2x Hart Champion
2x Television Champion

3x Star Of The Month
August ‘21, May ‘17, October ‘16

3x RP Of The Month
What light through sonder... my perception breaks.
Tranquility: For Old Times Sake
Manifest Victory

my loves:
[spoiler]